Arts Visuels et Spectacle Vivant

La Brebis Egarée

a rebel

May 25 2009


I waited at the street corner to cross into the park. The road was thick with trafic, like a wide and shallow river streaked with pythons-buses, crocodile-towncars, hipo-pickups, and mosquito-motorbikes. I felt deeper into my pockets, played with my lower lip, stuck out my tounge and farted as quietly as possible.

My pockets were empty.

I was a rebel.

I was such a rebel that I didn’t even comb my hair anymore and was seriously considering asking my mother to stop pretending I wasn’t a rebel and combing my rebelious curls until my ears hurt. I was such a rebel I was even considering crossing the street on a red light, if it hadn’t been a raging river of automotive destruction, of course.

So I waited.

Since the light was endlessly red I tried to make a mental list of all the swear words I knew and realized that unless you counted poop, nigger, dummy or dipstick, I only knew two: shit and republican.

You couldn’t get very far on that, even when combining them in casual coolness: you shitty republican or you republican shit.

It was of course out of the question to call anyone a dumb republican, although a dumbshit worked pretty well. It didn’t really matter though, since I couldn’t think of anyone I wanted to insult anyway, except mabey my sister, but she had stoped counting when she started wearing flowers in her hair and walking around barefoot and talking about peas.

As my mind wandered on homelessly I thought about Fred and Sally; two really stupid names that went quite well with even stupider faces, and far stupider yet minds.

This morning Fred had punched me in the stomach after Sally had spit in my face, all because I was a rebel, and because I had pulled on Sally’s ponytale to try and get her attention.

Sally had nice hair.

It was a black as the coal box in march, before the spring cleaning of course, and as long as the Teller’s waterfall in early summer.

It shifted like sand dunes when she played teather-ball and danced like Mrs Caldrys silk dress at the village dance in july.

But she was still stupid because she spit in my face.

Fred was her big brother and since stupid seems to rhyme with strong, I let him think he had the upper hand and went crying to the mistresse who gave him a great whalop and sent him home for the day. That was a great revenge since Sally had to walk home alone and would certainly come through the park, and I would be there, and mabey if I was nice and appologised she would let me walk her home, and hold her hand, if that shitty trafic light ever turned green.

It didn’t turn green though, so I started walking down 42nd wondering if Uncle Pete was back from Vietnam yet or if he was dead.

Mabey he was dead and noone wanted to tell me.

Its strange that old people like to keep so many secrets from us. It’s probably why they have so many problems.

Like mom and dad, or whats left of them.

I was begining to believe in bodysnatchers from another planet that had stolen my real parents and left flabby shells of people so nobody would catch on, but of course that was stupid. Especially since no aliens would ever be so stupid and drink and cry in front of neighbors and yell soo loud that my sister would leave for days and days.

I couldn’t leave yet, even if I was a rebel.

No money, the gas peddle and breaks where still to far, and I didn’t even have a map.

Mabey Sally or Fred did.


42nd turned into a tricke and I skirted across the street in the slowest run possible, uterly rebelious until a green motorbike came burping into the street and tried to run me over, but I didn’t cry, I just ran to the sidewalk and thought about giving him the finger. He was pretty big though and probably republican. Only republicans try to crush kids with their motorbikes.

At least that what my dad would say.

He’s a union man. At least when he works.

My mom would say I shouldn’t be crossing 42nd anyway and try and comb my hair. She has a real problem with my rebeliousness, but she lets dad do the hitting. He is pretty good at it, it doesn’t even really hurt, just scary sometimes.

Mom slapped me once because I farted at the table in front of Arnold the district spokesman for dads union. I cried. That sucked because it would have been more rebelious to laugh but I was pretty embarassed to fart in front of Arnold, he was kind of cool with his leather coat and stuff, but thats okay because he said that arabs fart when the food is good. Mabey I am an arabe rebel.

I wonder if there are arab pirates. Do they fart too?

Anyway, I got to the park and Sally must have gone because I waited a really long time and the sun took a dive behind the Jcpenny building. It got cold fast and I regreted rebeliously leaving that stupid blue sweater my mom gave me under the porch.

But she didn’t even buy it, she called it a hand-me-down and handed it down to me. I wish I could hand it to Tom or my little brother. He’s cool though, I wouldn’t want to do that to him.

He’s only five and can already do cartwheels and knows as many swearwords as me, because I taught him. I am his big brother after all and its my job.

Tyron came strolling into the park and looked like he was pretty tired. He was my age but twice as big because he’s black. But he’s more like a nice brown or even kind of reddish. He is almost as cool as my brother will be when he’s my age, but not much of a rebel, I think.

He talks nice to people but can hit really hard if he has to, which he does because he’s black and a lot of republicans don’t like that.

He asked if I wanted to walk home with him and I said yes real casual like but I was really glad because we had to walk through Maybury and it was getting dark.

Maybury is like hell for icecream. And Tyron is black so its okay.

My sister said that black power was like a run away train that all the republicans would one day have to reckon with.

I have no idea what that means. She talks about some funny shit, my sister. She is really beautiful though and always tells me cool stories about poets and musicians.

I am going to be a poet-musician-rebel.

She said she would find me a guitar and teach me chords. Those must be songs or something and that would be cool.

Tyron said his dad got hurt at work and he was going to stop going to school so he could help his mom. I said I would help his mom too and he punched my shoulder because he knows I’m kind of in love with his mom. She has big hair and makes me feel warm when she sings. Its like laying in warm grass and smelling honeysuckle and watching bees fly around and letting ants tickle your legs. She is the best mom around.

Tyrons dad is like a huge black stone that laughs like thunder and smiles with eyes as big as the harvest moon. Tyron’s mom says he would have been a king in africa, thats south of New York. He looks like a king only bigger.

Tyron told me he was in love with Sally and I almost hit him in the balls and ran away but we were still il Maybury so I took it like a rebel. He said she could never love him because he’s a negro and I felt a little better although I’m not so sure. Lots of people love him, but I guess thats different because she has long hair and little tiny boobs and her dad is a carpenter.

When we got to the end of Maybury Janet was on the corner selling her behind, as mom would say, and she gave us two quarters to go the corner store with.

Janets nice even if she is a protestant.

Tyron bought milk for his little sister and I bough candy and a baseball card for my brother.

Tyron is my best friend. He says life would be easier if he was white, but I am not so sure because I am and I wish I had his parents and muscles.

I gave him half my candy.

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